The life of a writer/editor

Dave Maine, with a new book out from Red Hen Press is reading tonight at 7 pm at KGB.

It’s been a good time in NY. Great reading at Poets House with Lisa C. Krueger, David St. John and Philip Levine. Afterward we went to dinner at Landmarc. I love the food there. And the desserts.

I am ready to go back to Los Angeles where the wind is at your back. The sun in your hair. The sun thick in your tangled hair. The burning sun in your wind. And not your face only, but sun quick on every part of you.

And here, there’s television. In my hotel room. I don’t have it at home, and when I have it here I notice kissing. There’s violence and sex. And lots of un-subs committing all manner of crimes and they commit these crimes and then the good guys catch them with their psychological wits and skills. They catch them and off they go to jail.

And then there are stupid little love affairs that seem to flutter across the screen and not matter to any of the characters. And they kiss. Here is the thing with onscreen kisses. It’s all curve of neck, like you’re being watched. And back with the head. You’re being watched. And lean in now. You’re being watched. And arch the back. You’re being watched. And lick their ears. Like they do in the movies. You are on camera. Throw back your head. Way back now. Dramatic back. Black and white back. Dress low down the back. Reach for ears, head, back of head, pull head forward. Fingers touching. You are being watched. You are on the screen. And now, we all kiss like we’re being watched. Like we’re working up to something. To the moment when the screen flows to gold and there’s a creamy dreamy wildness overtaking the lens and you spool into celluloid dreams. We kiss differently because we’ve watched so many movie kisses. I see them kissing, fitting their heads around each other paisley shirts combining easily like slippery eels and I know I’m doing it right. I kiss like a movie star. I kiss like I’m kissing George Clooney. All the time.

And then I wrote this today.
Not a poem, but a thought.
Not language, but word jumble.
Not a list, but an idea sort.
Not a dream, but a wish.
Not a prayer, but a blessing.

A Blessing

May you feel sunshine wet
never forget your family.

May you hear the gods’ music
find your way home.

May you find yourself flying.
With feathers. On air.

May you become your father in all his good parts,
your mother in all her excellence.